


I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Star1086



Category: Fringe
Genre: Christmas fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star1086/pseuds/Star1086
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This song was over there too,” Olivia says and Peter’s brow furrows as he listens. “Except it wasn’t Bing Crosby, it was Ronald Regan.” </p><p>It's hard adjusting being back in her own universe. It being Christmas doesn't make it any easier. Fluff disguised as angst. Or, angst disguised as fluff.</p><p>Season three-ish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> A little X-mas gift.

It’s a posh bar off Union Street that she finds him in, the walls wrapped in dark terracotta and bleeding into the exposed brick that isn’t hidden by wallpaper. The place looks surprisingly exactly like where Peter wouldn’t be caught dead in. The air’s hot as Olivia pushes her way past the threshold into the warmth of the building, the snow still sticking to her shoulders and hair as she attempts to warm the exposed parts of skin on her face. The place is dead, the low lights stretching over the abandoned tables and reflecting off the honey-colored bottles that hide on the shelves behind the bar. She’s not shocked that the place is deserted: it’s Christmas Eve after all.

Finding him is easy enough, the one lone stranger with the instantly recognizable hunched shoulders like a teenager. He sits quietly at the bar, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows to expose the taut expanse of his forearms as he leans his weight on them as he drinks. His winter clothing sits on the empty stool to his right, long since dried and she wonders how long he’d been here drinking before he called. It’s been close to a month since she’d returned from the other side, and had all but completely avoided being alone with him. She’s certain he saw her enter, at least felt the chill of the winter wind following her, but he doesn’t register her presence, instead he stares down his drink and swirls it around his glass.

“Hey,” she tests as she approaches, wanting nothing more than to unravel the stiff material of her scarf to thaw out but she’s not sure if he wants to stay or not.

He finally looks up when he hears her voice, his eyes black where his pupils swallowed the irises, his composed face hard to read. On cue he softens, shoulders lowering as he leans back into a more relaxed pose. She’s amazed that he’s able to turn on a dime.   

“Wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says and tilts his head for her to join him on the seat to his left. She strips away the scarf and her gloves, but keeps her jacket on as she slides next to him and tries to work the feeling back into her frozen fingers. “Thank you.”

“You knew I would.” She says, although she’s pretty sure she doesn’t need to say it at all. Of course she’d come if he asked. The smile that trickles across his face is sincere, and his back loosens even more and he takes another swallow from the glass without looking away from her face.

“I suppose I hoped you’d think better than to let me drive under the influence,” he says, his voice gravelly from the scotch. “But I appreciate it all the same.” There’s an edge there that she recognizes, something that says more than his tightly reserved posture does. She knows she’s walking in a trap; hates that he knows her so well.  

“Something to drink?” he asks, motioning to the bartender who’s been wiping down glasses and looking surly in the corner. He pads over and Peter points to his glass and then to Olivia. His drink is refilled while Olivia declines. Peter eyes her suspiciously.

“Not exactly the place I’d picture you’d spend the holidays.” Olivia says as she leans against the gleaming finish of the bar. She’s not sure where to put her hands, folding them to keep herself from fidgeting.

“Surprisingly everything else was closed.”

“I take it you weren’t just looking for a ride?” she says as the bartender disappears into the back, leaving them the only two left in the room. She doesn’t like bullshitting.

“I could have called myself a cab if I needed a ride. I was hoping you would come if I asked you to. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure if you would...after everything.” Peter says pointedly, catching her gaze over the curl of his shoulder and Olivia’s face suddenly feels hot and she turns to keep him from noticing. She thinks she sees a ghost of something in Peter’s eyes but he wipes it clean and covers it with a smirk. “But who doesn’t have a drink on Christmas?” His eyes crinkle around the corners as he breaks out into a grin, even though his eyes still gleam something that makes her uncomfortable, unable to discern exactly why. He tips his glass and helps himself to another drink, his jaw chewing down as he swallows.

“No eggnog?” she shrugs stiffly, but she finally undoes the buttons to her coat, shrugging out of it to toss onto the stool next to her, her fingers still stiff. He’s distracted, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. She knows him well enough to know when he’s trying to be deceptive. She’s hoping whatever it is he’ll just keep it to himself so she can be home by midnight to spend Christmas alone.  

“Eggnog’s gone,” he says in a measured tone. “But plenty of hard stuff left. This would be much easier for me if you’d decide you’d like to humor me though.” Peter heaves a heavy sigh, in through his mouth and out his nose.

Moments ago the air felt pleasant, warmer than the bitter Boston winters that the warmth of the bar was shielding them from. Now she feels like she’s suffocating in it, the walls too close together because she’s not really sure of the direction Peter’s leading. They haven’t talked about her time over there, or what transpired in her absence. Honestly, she never intends on finding out.

“Sounds like you’ve had enough,” she tries to divert, knowing damn well he’s nowhere close to drunk but trying to move him along anyway. She leans in to pick the glass that’s hiding lazily between his fingers, attempting to steal it. He’s faster than she is though, his speed throwing her off when his hot fingers snatch her cold ones.

“Jesus, your hands are freezing.” He says and he’s close enough that Olivia can smell the musky scent of alcohol on his breath. Peter’s reaction surprises her into silence, and her mouth drops open when he rubs her fingers briskly between his hands, forcing his warmth into her bones. She wants to say _thanks_ or _stop_ or _something_ but she can’t bring herself to say anything, it’s been so long since he’s touched her so she sits and let him warm her fingers.

“It is a snowstorm out there, you know.” She finally mutters when Peter withdraws his hands like nothing happened, her hands still in the air between them. She reluctantly pulls them back, trying to imagine the warmth that she now misses. Olivia realizes for the first time since she’s been there that Christmas is music playing in the background. She wonders when was the last time she actually listened to music at all.

“It hasn’t been easy for me either, you know.” Peter finally says after a few minutes pass, his voice cutting over a song Olivia recognizes from over there, the words different than she remembers. It’s disturbing.

“I know.” She says automatically.

“ _You don’t_.” He continues but his voice isn’t harsh, finding her face, his eyes sad. He looks like…well she doesn’t recognize what she’s seeing now.

“Peter, I—“ she starts, having no intention of having this conversation with him ever but Peter grabs her clenched fist on the bar and holds tight.

“You don’t. And I know you’ve tried. I know it hasn’t easy for you coming back. And I know a big reason for that is because of me.” He says as he takes back his hand again, scrubbing his expression clean. Olivia leans toward the warmth of his missing touch, pulling herself back to listen to his words.

“I don’t blame you for what happened.” She says because she’s just put it all together, pursing her lips and attempting to put to words the ravaging emotions she’s trying to work through. She prods at the feelings that still linger, the words she spoke to him in a different universe to see if they’re ruined now. She decides that they’re not.

“That makes one of us.” Peter cuts sardonically, and his back tightens into coiled rings and Olivia wants to smooth them under the material of his shirt. She doesn’t recognize the shirt he’s wearing and there’s another ping of disappointment. She captures his hand away from the glass of the alcohol he’s nursing. He looks at her, his face surprised. There’s a flutter in her stomach when he squeezes back.

“Olivia,” he swallows, his head shaking like he’s stumbling. “When I found what Walter had done, I… I just lost it. And when I found out you knew…” he trails off before tacking on hurriedly, “I understand why you kept his secret, I do. And it was stupid and cowardly to run away like I did, and I can’t fathom why you came to get me. Crossed universes. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to understand why. And most of all I wanted to thank you. In spite of everything.” He loosens his grip on Olivia’s hand like he’s confident that she won’t run screaming in the other direction. Instead of returning back to his drink, he keeps it close, his thumb tracing the bone of her wrist, staring hard at the exposed skin.

“And that I feel the same way too, if that still means anything.” he holds up a hand to cut her off. “It wasn’t her who crossed universes for me. She’s not who I came back to where I belong for. She’s not—“ he stops. “It’s you.”

Olivia’s skin is electrified, hearing Peter’s words and unable to process them.  
  
“I don’t know what to say.” She whispers honestly, trying to swallow down the rock in her throat.

Peter nods as he looks behind his shoulder, a new song playing over the speakers. Bing Cosby croons _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ and it makes Olivia smile.

“This song was over there too,” Olivia says and Peter’s brow furrows as he listens. “Except it wasn’t Bing Crosby, it was Ronald Regan.”

Peter laughs, and she feels the tension pop like some invisible bubble. “Seriously?”

“It was terrible. I mean, epic in how terrible it was.” Olivia smiles, her face warming. “I’m glad I’m back.”

Peter’s face turns serious. “Me too.” He says. She’s not talking about the song. Neither is he.

They listen to the rest of the song in silence, letting the tune fill in the space around them. Peter watches his drink as Olivia watches him. She suddenly checks her watch, smiling under the shadows.

“Merry Christmas,” Olivia says and leans in nudge Peter’s shoulder with her own. It’s meant to be friendly, a bridge across to tell him that they’re okay. Peter doesn’t react like she expects.

Peter pivots, cups her cheek to pull her close and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Olivia sucks in a breath in surprise, though she should be far past ever being surprised anymore and decides that maybe it’s going to be okay after all.

So she kisses him back. Peter’s hands are calloused but gentle on her jaw and she opens her mouth and tastes the alcohol on Peter’s tongue. Even though she doesn’t see it, she knows he’s smiling; reflecting her own smile like the sun.

“Welcome home, Olivia.” Peter says when they finally pull apart, nuzzling his nose against her forehead. “Is it still snowing?” he asks, his breath hot against her skin.

“Probably. Do we need to go? They’ve got to be close to closing.”

“Nah,” Peter says as he pulls her back in. “I paid the guy a small fortune to keep the place open.”

Olivia gives him a cynical look, her mouth quirked. Peter shrugs.

 “It’s Christmas after all,” he says. “And we’ve got all the time in the world.” He touches her lips again, his kiss unhurried.

For the first time in a long time, this feels like home. 


End file.
